December Postings

Greetings lovely people!!  Thanks so much for your recent flurry of comments and interest in the story line.  Nothing like a slew of opinions to make the writers smile.  :oD

December is nearly upon us, and along with it, busy days at work and home for Audra and me.  Production will slow down just a bit, and we will be paring back the chapter postings to two days a week instead of three.  You can find your regular ATR posts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we'll try and toss in a couple of holiday bonus chapters as time permits.

Hope you continue to enjoy the story, and find lots to talk about!

♥blush & Audra

30 - Best Seller

“What the hell are you doing in there?” Jon called out from the bedroom.

Dinner was over, as was the after dinner drink and relaxed conversation between the three of them.  Richie had even forgiven her for running off his potential hook up for the night with a good-natured smile.

Sheridan smiled into the vanity mirror, pushing her hands up to muss her already messy hair and then tightly tying the sash on the red shortie robe Jon liked so much.  Puckering plumped red lips, and tracing a matching fingernail along the corner to pick up a dab of stray gloss, she winked at herself.

“Let’s see if you’re really the sex kitten he claims you are,” she whispered under her breath, pivoting on a freshly margarita-lotioned heel and reaching for the heavy knob on the guest bath door.

Sliding an arm up the open doorway, she cocked one hip and propped an elbow on the dark wood molding, preparing to sizzle him with a seductive ‘come hither’ look.    One glimpse of him lying naked on the bed completely obliterated all hope of executing anything that vaguely resembled sexy.  Instead, she doubled over with laughter.

‘Naked’ was not an entirely accurate term.  He wasn’t truly naked, because all of the pornographic parts were covered – with a huge, floppy sombrero.

“Way to bruise a guy’s ego,” he tried to play the injured party, but was forcing his ‘hurt’ through a grin that wouldn’t be restrained.

“Way to ruin a hell of a seduction scene,” she bantered right back at him, sauntering toward the bed with a delighted shake of her head and lightly flicking the bright straw crown.  “What’s up with the hat?  The only two Mexican references I can think of are Senor Droopy from Guadalupe and Speedy Gonzales.    I’m thinking you don’t want tagged with either of those nicknames for the duration of this relationship.”

He lunged for her wrist, but she snatched it back too quickly and he was left clutching at air. 

“Listen here, you ego-shriveling temptress,” he growled, repositioning his personal Fiestaware while she looomed over him.  “We didn’t get tequila and limes for our shot party.  Richie had this hanging in his office, so I improvised.  And you forgot one very important cartoon character in that lineup.”

She lifted one unconvinced eyebrow and flipped her hair back with a saucy flounce.  “Oh?  And who is that?”

He tossed the hat Frisbee-style to the floor with a smirk, uncovering a full-blown erection.  “Slow.  Poke.  Rodriguez.” 

Even as she willed herself to be ticked over his ruination of her seduction scene, she chuckled delightedly.  These were the times she felt like he was hers.  This silly teasing with the underlying sexual anticipation told her more than words ever could.  He wanted her, but he was comfortable with her.  Comfortable enough to play these teasing games in his friend’s house. 

It filled her with stupidly warm and fuzzy feelings.

Don’t go there.  Your job tonight is to drag him from silly to serious.  To make him beg. 

Tugging at his big toe, she deliberately kept her eyes trained anywhere on his body but the area that was demanding attention. 

“So no tequila shots tonight?” she inquired, slowly picking at the knotted strip of red silk that held her robe closed. 

“No, but we can pretend.  I’ll still suck all the right spots.” 

His eyes didn’t miss a move when she slipped one end of the sash through the other.  It taunted him, moving at a snail’s pace through the tight loop fashioned from the sash’s other end.  Wiggling, wriggling, jiggling…  It took an eon to make any sort of progress with it. 

Jon was not a patient man.

“Take it off already,” he grumbled, reaching for her with the intent to help the recalcitrant knot bend to his will. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sheridan scolded with a raised brow as her fingers curled more tightly around the snarled sash.  “You and I have some business to finish.”

“Damn straight we do.  Take off the fuckin’ robe and we’ll finish it.”  This time he gave a half-hearted lunge in an effort to use the flimsy, fragile cloth as a tow rope. 

Shaking her head sadly, she took a step back, well out of his reach, and held the belt high over her head.  He would have to get completely out of bed to reach her.

The scrap of red silk floated gracefully through the air when she let it slither between her scarlet-hued fingernails.  In slow motion, the fabric trickled into a luxurious heap of ribbon alongside a foot tipped in a matching shade of crimson.

“I believe I have a biography to negotiate,” she reminded him softly, arms folded in such a way to keep the robe closed.  The only things he could see were bare legs and feet.  He had no clue as to what was hidden beneath her robe. 

Falling back into the pillows, he lifted his arms and tucked both hands behind his head, grinning wickedly. 

“I don’t negotiate.  It’s my way.  Period.”

“Oh?”  Unfolding her arms, careful not to let the robe slip, she fingered the edge of the opening.  “Not even if I make it worth your while?”

“No amount of money is worth that kind of headache.”

She snickered quietly, trailing a single red nail down her exposed sternum.  “I wasn’t going to offer you money, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but what you are gonna offer, I’m already gettin’, Baby.”

God, he was cocky.  She both loved his self-confidence and longed to take him down a peg or two.

“Food tastes best to a starving man.”

“Oh-ho, no.”  His shaggy locks shimmied when he gave an adamant head shake.  His feet hit the floor and he stalked her with slow intent.  When she stopped him from coming too close with an open palm at the end of an outstretched arm, he dipped his head and lifted his eyebrows.  “You’re not cutting me off.  Not for some fucking book.”

“Nobody said I was cutting you off,” she refuted on a purr.  “But you’ll be damn hungry the next time you eat.”

“Sheridan…”  The low warning reminded her of thunder rumbling in the distance, the precursor of an impending storm.  It was time to let him see what was under the robe before he got pissy.

“Jon…” she countered, allowing her forearm to fall away from the robe so that it could fall open at the front.  “Don’t get mad when I all I want to do is make you come so hard that you get a cramp in your ass.”

“Then let me close enough to fuck you.”  His chest pushed against her open palm, trying to force her arm to bend at the elbow. 

“Stop.”  Sheridan’s chiding was quiet and accompanied by a scolding look.  “You’ll ruin my sales pitch.”

Faded ink rippled under well-defined biceps when he crossed his arms, mouth flattened with annoyance.  He was all fierce warrior, a force to be reckoned with. 

And an erection to be reckoned with.

It bobbed agitatedly against his belly, making its impatience known and severely curbing the fierce image he was working to achieve.

“Two minutes.  Then this hungry man is going to eat until the kitten gives up the cream.”

Sweet Jesus. 

“I’ve got an enticing marketing plan written out, that I think will excite you,” she determinedly launched her seductive spiel in a voice woven of vixen and infomercial announcer.  “Uncover Jon Bon Jovi’s secrets.”  Clutching the robe’s lapels tightly, she shrugged one shoulder out of the slinky silk to reveal two eyeliner-penciled words under her right collar bone. 

Blue Collar

“From blue collar Jersey boy to…“ She shrugged her other shoulder out, keeping the rest of her torso covered while displaying ‘White Collar’  under her left clavicle. “…white collar philanthropist, Jon Bon Jovi has earned a reputation as the most private public figure in America.”

The ferocity he so proudly displayed was quickly melting into something softer.  Something far less rigid – for the most part, anyway.

“The author of this first-ever authorized biography has… “ The satin slid beneath her right breast to reveal ‘Milked’ emblazoned over the aureole, and the corner of Jon’s mouth quivered with amusement.  “…milked the deepest, darkest secrets of the rockstar next door.  The result?”

The left breast popped out, inscribed with ‘Titillating’. 

“A series of titillating tales that offer readers a secret look at the…“ Red silk shimmered again as her ‘Underbelly’ inscribed abdomen was exposed.  “…fervently protected underbelly of not the band, but the man.”

The only covered part of Sheridan’s body was below her waist to the top of her thighs, from hip to hip.  With the easy unfurling of her fingertips, the silk cascaded into a decadent pool around her feet, leaving her fully nude and unveiling the final cosmetically crafted teaser.  ‘Intimate’ was arched just above the narrow strip of pubic hair on her mound.

“Jon Bon Jovi… an intimate look.”

His head fell back with a throaty laugh and he snaked his arms around her waist, hauling Sheridan close.  The eyeliner smudged from her body to his when he hugged tight and buried his face in her hair, still chuckling. 

“It’s a helluva lot sexier than Howard Stern’s book cover, I’ll give you that.”

 “So that’s a yes, then, right?”

Grinning up at him, she wiggled her hips against his, amazed that he could laugh so openly and still maintain his arousal.  Maintained or not, her attention enticed it into a heightened state of ‘maintenance’.    

“How about I give you a counter-pitch?” he negotiated smoothly in his best diplomat’s voice, beefy palms cradling the curve of her bottom.  “You keep my boring-ass secrets like shoe size and favorite color to yourself…  and I’ll let you in on the really good stuff.”

“Define good stuff.”

“Mmm…”  He nuzzled behind her ear, nipping the diamond studded lobe before whispering.  “I got drunk with Gene Simmons a couple times.  He showed me a few talented tongue tricks that I save for very special occasions.”

He flicked the tip of his tongue across the tendon in her neck, using it like a bow on a violin string.  How could something so non-sexual send bottle rockets straight to her core?  If he could do that to her neck, what could he do below the neck?

“Tongue tricks, huh?  I’ve never been known as an unreasonable woman.  I’m willing to suffer through the counter-pitch.”

With a playful growl, Jon twirled her to the bed and tossed her lightly on the mattress.  Her startled squeal pierced the quiet bedroom air, and then she couldn’t breathe because he was right on top of her. 

“Okay, Joan of Arc.  Just for that wise-ass crack you are gonna suffer,” he vowed, nipping at her bottom lip, and then swabbing away the pinch of pain with a broad stroke of his tongue.  “All…..” 

He dipped to drag his tongue under her jawline.  “Night…..” 

Further down to the top of her breast.  “Long….” 

His decree finalized, Jon sucked her nipple into his mouth and proceeded to make good on his word, burning her with a fire that would melt any martyr at the stake.

29 - Tit for Tat

"I saw that look," Richie remarked casually and took a small swallow of his beer. 

Lifting a condemning eyebrow, Jon eyed the Corona pointedly and asked, "What look?"

His friend fastidiously ignored the censorship of his beverage selection.   "The one that Tropical Storm Sheridan gave you.  The one that said she's gonna tie you to the bed and sexually manipulate you until you agree to that biography."

Oh. That look.

His eyes involuntarily darted in the direction she had taken when excusing herself to the ladies' room mere seconds ago.  He could still see the back of her red leather jacket and jeans that lovingly cupped her backside.  The white t-shirt under the jacket made it casual, yet classy – just like Sheridan.  

She would be horrified to know that Richie had caught a glimpse of her alter-ego.  That part of her was reserved for special occasions that involved him and him alone.  Considering the newness of their relationship, it was Jon's responsibility to downplay it to the best of his ability.

"I dunno what you're talking about man."

"The hell you don't," his friend snorted, clunking the distinctive glass bottle onto the earthen tile table top.  "I caught a glimpse of the woman you described from Jamaica, and I totally see the appeal. Stormy Rain is hot, horny and intense."

Among other things.

Having no interest in reciting a laundry list of Sheridan’s qualifications outside the bedroom, he stuck with a standard reply. 

"No comment."

A wide, dimpled grin split Richie's face.  "That ‘no comment’ was a comment in itself.  You’ve only eight more shopping days until Christmas.  Get your playmate somethin’ nice."

Christmas.  Damn.   They had only been dating a few days. Surely that was an unnecessary formality?

"I don't think she's gonna expect anything.  That's not how she is."

"Expect?  Maybe not, but she sure as hell hopes.  Don't be a dick just because you suck at shopping."

Jon grimaced.  That was the real problem here.  He did suck at shopping, which was why Jeri’s help had been enlisted for Sheridan’s birthday gift.  Now that they were actually dating, he wasn’t going to be able to get by with passing shopping duties on to his assistant, even if he wanted to. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he sighed, swirling his sangria in the oversized wine glass.  Waste of perfectly good – well, mediocre – wine to bastardize it with all that fruit and sugar.  Sheridan had goaded him into ordering it by calling him a boring wine snob and daring him to fiesta a little.  

The word ‘dare’ had jogged a wicked and forgotten memory from Jamaica.  Kitten wasn’t able to resist a good dare, as he recalled.  This was a weakness that was going to require exploitation.  Definitely.

“Hell yes I’m right.  I’ll bet I’m also right that you have no idea what to get her, despite the fact that you could tell me how me how many hairs are in her panties.”

It still astounded him that Richie was the ‘romantic’ one of the two of them.  He must be an expert at hiding his true personality around women.  That’s all Jon could say.

“Not no idea, but I’m not exactly overflowing with them.  If you’ve got a suggestion, spit it out.”

At the small table for four, each chair occupied one side of the table and Richie was seated at his left.  The guitarist leaned into him, speaking conspiratorially, “Bro, if being married to Heather taught me anything, it’s that all women love diamonds.  You can’t go wrong with ‘em.”

“Not all women love diamonds.  Dorothea liked her ring, but that was about all the interest she had in them.”

Richie took another healthy swallow of his Corona.  Was this his second or his third?  Jon should have been paying closer attention. 

“Yeah, well, your ex-wife was the exception, not the rule.  Have you seen the diamond earrings Stormy Rain is wearing?  Mark my words.  Your girl digs diamonds.”

Thinking back, he could recall seeing a diamond and ruby tennis bracelet, a diamond pendant on a white gold chain, the ring she wore on her right hand and at least a couple pairs of diamond earrings.  Sambora might have a point.

He was just about to admit that when a cougar-like growl had both of their heads swiveling. 

Tre-fucking-mendous.

Two women in their late-twenties or early-thirties had recognized them and were zooming in for the kill, like a couple of well-endowed jackals.  In true California style, both were blonde bombshells and completely comfortable in sharing their assets with the world. 

“Well, well…” Blonde Number One purred, leaning into Jon.  “If it isn’t the fine men of Hot Jovi.”

❧❧❧

Fluffing out her hair and tucking a bit of it behind her ear, Sheridan put a hand in her purse, blindly searching for her lipstick.  There was something about LA that made her a little insecure.  All the too-skinny, artificially enhanced women made Sheridan and her original, unaltered equipment look very much out of place.

With a determined shake of her head, she put that nonsense out of her head and tuned out the statuesque brunette standing next to her at the mirror.  Jon hadn’t shown any signs of being dissatisfied with her equipment, and he’d seen his share.  That was reason enough not to care about Boobjob Brittany.

Her time would be better served plotting ways to get him to commit to that biography. 

Ian had been her first boyfriend, and they married right out of college.  There had been that brief breakup during her freshman year of college where she had a little fling with a bad boy, but he had come onto her, not the other way around.  Sheridan had never been given a reason to seduce a man. 

This might be fun, even if he never agrees to the book.

Honestly, the biography didn’t interest her.  He interested her, and so did writing, but she didn’t have any desire to write a dry biography about his life.  Fiction would allow her to explore her creativity, and with the recent igniting of her libido, erotic fiction held a particular appeal. 

She still had contact information for a publisher that she’d gotten friendly with over the years.  Bridget Stowasser had specialized in contemporary romance and erotic fiction at one of the big companies.  Although Sheridan heard that she’d left her publishing house to pursue another field of interest, she would likely still be able to provide some guidance.

Wonder if Jon would be willing to work out some of the scenes with me?  Or provide some inspiration for them?

He already did that. 

A chill raced down her spine when she recalled his plan to do body shots with her.  Definitely inspirational.  They’d not had tipsy sex yet, and staying in Richie’s house, it wasn’t likely that they would tonight.  But soon…

Stiff nipples dug into the white lace of her bra.  If sober sex was earth-moving, what it would be like when their inhibitions were loosened by a little alcohol? 

Senseless.   With a little tequila, I will fuck him senseless.

Tucking the lipstick back into her bag, she discreetly rubbed her thighs together.  It didn’t do anything to ease the tingling between them and, as a matter of fact, the tingling intensified into a faint throbbing.  She’d spent enough time in the ladies’ room. 

Let’s get this dinner over with so I can practice my powers of persuasion.

Slipping the shoulder strap of the small, leather purse onto her shoulder, she pulled on the heavy wooden door’s handle and took a quick step back.  Yet another airbrushed beauty waltzed into the bathroom, nearly knocking Sheridan out of the way with the pair of lead zeppelins in her bra.

With a patient sigh, she schooled herself to smile politely before continuing out of the bathroom.  She stepped from the alcove where the restrooms were located and looked toward the table.  Walking closer, Sheridan could see that the waiter had delivered their food.  She could also see that Jon was being force fed something other than the enchiladas he ordered.

Two artificially reconstituted young women decked out in Daisy Dukes, spiked heels and clinging, low cut blouses were hanging all over Jon and Richie.  Blondenstein was sitting in the chair next to Richie’s clinging to his arm and gushing.  Her friend, Blondezilla, hadn’t taken the liberty of seating herself.  No, she wouldn’t be that presumptuous.  She was tastefully pushing her exposed cleavage toward Jon’s face. 

Sheridan was relieved to see that he wasn’t impressed with the tacky display of whore-ism.  Fan encounters were to be expected if she was going to be a part of his life.  She got that.  She had endured it quite happily outside of Demonico’s, in fact.  It wouldn’t bother her in the least to endure it a thousand times more if the fans were respectful.  But this…? 

No.  Hell, no. 

The terse lines around his polite grimace told her that wasn’t any happier about it than she was.  That was a green light in her book.  If he wasn’t happy about it, she wasn’t going to hesitate to call the girl out on her flagrantly inappropriate behavior. 

Sidling up to her vacated chair, Sheridan spoke casually.  “Sweetheart, it might be perfectly acceptable to smash a man’s face in your tits at your dinner table, but you’re not going to do it at mine.  Take a step back and let him breathe.”

The girl’s face didn’t even register surprise – or any other emotion for that matter.  Was that because of a recent Botox injection?  Regardless, she did step back about two inches.  It was enough for her to see the spark of challenge in Jon’s eyes.  He wanted to see if she could handle the insistent little fan.

Oh, don’t doubt that I will come out as the victor in this little pissing contest, Rockstar.

“Who the hell are you?” Blondezilla demanded peevishly.  Blondenstein still clung to Richie’s arm and just blinked vacant brown eyes at Sheridan, content to let her friend speak.  Richie quietly smothered a grin and narrowed his eyes, waiting to see what Sheridan’s response would be.

“Me?”  She held a hand to her chest innocently.  “I’m nobody.  Just a woman who believes that a having a celebrity encounter still counts even if the celebrity doesn’t encounter my cleavage.”

“Ladies,” Jon interjected smoothly.  “Thank you for stopping by, but our food is going to get cold.  You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”

Sliding into her seat, Sheridan didn’t pay either of the Blondesy Twins any more attention and smoothed her napkin into her lap as the two were ushered off with autographed napkins.  Her sangria glass had been magically refilled in her absence, she saw.  Lifting the rim of the heavy glass to her lips, she let the sweet, fruity blend trickle down her throat before gently setting it back on the table and curling her fingers around the dinner fork.

“You gonna let her get away with that?” 

Flicking her eyes to Jon’s friend she saw that he was leaning his elbows on the table, long fingers curled around the neck of a cold Corona.  There was no censure in his words, merely bland interest.  He plucked the lime out of the mouth of the bottle and set it aside.

“What did I ‘get away with’?”  She asked curiously.  “Good manners?”

Jon’s lips were twitching with amusement when he reached for her hand.  “Kitten.  Fans are gonna come up to the table when we go out.  It happens.  You’re gonna have to learn to just go with it and not cause a scene.   I’ve been doing this a long time, and can handle it.”

Sheridan paused, fork in the air, and cocked her head to one side.  “I have no doubt you can ‘handle it’, but let me put this in perspective, if you will,” she offered congenially, eyes narrowing only slightly.  “If you don’t want my face in anyone else’s trousers, you won’t have yours in anyone else’s cleavage.”

Jon laughed quietly and lifted his glass in salute.  “Touche, Baby.  Touche.”

Sunday Post

Due to the Thanksgiving holiday and my vacation last week, production is a bit behind.  Therefore, we are going to be forced to skip the regular Sunday post of After the Rain.  I hope to be back on schedule for Tuesday, though.

I sincerely apologize and thank you for your patience!!  :o)

♥blush

28 - La Familia

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”  He didn’t bother opening his eyes, but lazily swirled a thumb in the small of her back to indicate that he was awake and listening. 

Sheridan glided her foot up and down the length of his calf, pondering the best way to approach the subject that was on her mind.  They hadn’t yet needed to discuss any potentially sensitive subjects – ones that had nothing to do with them, anyway.  Maybe it would be best to feel out the boundaries and see how receptive he was going to be to the idea.

“Are we at a point in our… relationship… that I can talk openly with you about something that might be none of my business?”

Offering a soft grunt, he scooted into an upright position, his movement forcing her out of the comfortable spot on his chest.  She quietly huffed with disappointment and propped herself beside him on the headboard.  Pulling the Aerosmith shirt down to cover her thighs, she slanted him an inquiring look.

“We’ve been pretty intimate.  I’d say that there are a few doors open.”

She snickered softly,  no longer feeling obligated to accept the chaste side-by-side pose to have this talk.  Twirling her legs beneath her, Sheridan walked on her knees, the mattress shifting beneath her as she straddled his lap.

“Don’t get all defensive,” she chided softly, lightly leaning into the palms she rested against his bare shoulders.  “I only wanted to ask about Richie’s housekeeper.”

The tension around his mouth eased and he regarded her with open curiosity.  “Gracie?  What about her?”

“I just wondered about her.  Has she been with Richie long?”

Jon slid his arms around her back, encouraging her to lie on him, and he tucked her head into his shoulder.  “I dunno.  Four years, maybe?  Heather’s dad sent her Richie’s way when he needed a housekeeper.  Why?”

“His ex-wife’s father sent him a housekeeper?”  That was undeniably strange in her book. 

“It’s not like that with Richie and his ex.  They’re still friendly, and he’s always gotten along with her parents.”

“That’s still weird, in my opinion.  But, even so…  Maybe I’m imagining it, but I’m picking up on some tension between her and Richie.  Do they get along?”

“Yeahhhh…” he said thoughtfully, on a sigh. 

“That didn’t sound terribly convincing.”

He ignored her teasing, saying, “Sheridan.  Sit up and look at me.”

She did as he asked, surprised to find his face as somber as she’d ever seen it.  Had she hit a nerve of some kind?  She certainly didn’t want to start trouble this early in their trip.  It would probably be best to retract the question and stifle her feminine intuition.

“I warned you it might be none of my business…”

A single finger lifted to touch lightly against her lips, and he shushed her with a slow shake of his head.  “I didn’t say it was none of your business, but it is Bon Jovi family business.   Part of the reason that family has remained intact for so long is that family business is never discussed outside the family.  Fans may speculate, but they never truly know.  We don’t confirm or deny, and I’m trusting you to keep what I’m going to tell you in strictest confidence.”

Jesus.  Had she hooked up with the Mafia?  She thought there had been stories about uncles in the ‘waste management’ business, but Sheridan had ignored them, believing they were highly exaggerated romanticisms.  On the off-change they weren’t, she didn’t know if she was ready to dip her scarlet-painted toes into that particular pool.

“Jon, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Stop,” he ordered softly, scrupulously searching the depths of her eyes.  “Everything I know about you tells me that you’re as honest and discreet as they come.  Tell me you’ll keep this between us, and I’ll trust you to do it.”

Good Lord, what was he about to tell her?  Did Richie and his housekeeper hack up bodies and store them in the basement – if there was one – for Pete’s sake?  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but Jon’s show of trust touched her.  Refusing the information now would be insulting.

“Of course I’ll keep it between us,” she agreed.  “I would never break your confidence, Jon.  That’s just not who I am.”

The way he exhaled made her think he’d been unobtrusively holding his breath.  He smiled affectionately and pulled her in for a quick kiss of approval.  “I know.  At least I thought I did.”

She didn’t see a need to reply to that, but slid off of him so that they were both a little more comfortable for this chat and snuggled into his side.  It was only a short wait for him to decide what it was he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it.  Ultimately, it came out as, “Richie battles demons, and he doesn’t always win.”

“You mean alcohol?” 

He nodded regretfully.  “Rehab works for him – almost too well, because it gives him a false sense of security.  He thinks he can have a drink without it becoming two or more.  Sometimes he can and other times… not.  It’s a little frustrating for those of us who love him.  Gracie more than the rest of us, I think.”

“Because she sees him almost every day.”

“Yeah.  From New York it’s easy for me to pretend he’s got everything under control, but Gracie is here for each backward slide.  If not during, then after.  Her military background puts a short leash on her tolerance for his lack of discipline, I imagine.  She gets a little gruff with him, and he either becomes contrite and straightens himself back out, or gets pissed for a while after.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve caught him in the pissed state a few times.  He threatens to fire her, but never does.  I think he knows that she means well, even if she has unconventional methods.”

Sheridan gently stroked a face that had more and deeper lines than it had a few moments ago.  While it was nice to know her feelings weren’t unfounded, those sad lines were enough to make her wish she hadn’t asked.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. 

“So am I, but he’s a big boy.”  The observation was tinged with helpless regret.  “He’s gotta get his shit together sometime.”

❧❧❧

“So…”  Richie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table at Dos Amigos.  “How the hell is it, months later and in a city full of millions, you two crazy kids managed to reconnect?”

Jon’s friend knew this story.  He had told it to him personally, but for some reason, Richie wanted to hear it again.  Maybe to get Sheridan’s take on it?  It was tough getting into the Boys’ Club, and he wasn’t ready to let her in the door yet. 

No big deal.  It was only a matter of time before Sheridan charmed him, too.  Jon could play along in the meantime.

He smiled, leaning back into his chair and crossing his legs as Sheridan rolled her eyes and popped a salsa-drenched tortilla chip into her mouth.  Idly studying her from across the table, he wondered if Kitten would come out with her claws bared if he gave her a good enough reason. 

“She wanted to write my biography, so she convinced Karl Fenning to invite us to the same party.”

“That’s crap,” she immediately mumbled around her chip, not bothering to swallow before she launched into protest.  When she did get the tortilla down, she declared, “If I wanted to write your biography, I could’ve found you on my own.  I wouldn’t need Karl.”

“Biography?”  Richie’s eyebrows crept up toward his hairline, in feigned surprise.  From the look on his wingman’s face, Jon might as well have said ‘lobotomy’.  The guy played dumb like a professional when the mood struck him.  “You’re gonna do an authorized biography?”

“We actually never got around to talking about that,” Sheridan commented at the same time Jon snorted, “Hell, no!”

“Oh yeah.  This is gonna be fun.”  Richie put his hand in the air, fingers snapping while calling jovially, “Señor!  More chips and salsa!”

After shooting a pissed-off glare at Richie, Sheridan turned to Jon, a sardonic smirk twisting her lips.  “You sound so adamant.”

“I am,” he assured her with a matching smirk, crossing his arms defiantly. 

It didn’t intimidate his Kitten a damn bit.  In fact, she crossed her arms in exactly the same way, just to mock him.  She earned another measure of respect for that defiant maneuver and her enticing, “No room for negotiation at all, huh?”

“None.”

Lifting a cocky eyebrow, she reached into the basket of tortilla chips freshly delivered by the waiter.  She carefully perused the contents before making her selection and picking up a perfectly formed corn triangle with the tips of her fingers. 

“I bet I could make you change your mind.”

He barely restrained a groan at the white-hot flash of seduction blazing from carefully hooded eyes.  It was the tiniest of cracks in her prim demeanor, but he saw it – and it slayed him.

Oh, Baby.  You are sooo welcome to try.

“I bet you can’t.”

“Where can I get in on this action?  I got fifty on JB,” Richie interjected with a calculating chuckle.

That quickly, Kitten vanished, leaving Jon to wonder if he had imagined the snapshot in time.  Now, Sheridan smiled benignly, dipping her chip in salsa and reverting to her ‘normal’ self.

“All it would take would be the right sales projections and you could be bought, Bongiovi.”

I don’t want to be bought.  I wanna be convinced, and tonight you get your chance.

27 - Master Musician

Sheridan washed her hands, analyzing herself critically in the vanity mirror of Richie’s guest bath.  She didn’t look too bedraggled for having been up since five that morning.  Her mascara had smudged and required a touchup, but for the most part everything was still intact. 

Reaching inside her handbag for a tube of lipstick, she found her cellphone vibrating with an incoming call. 

Suzy. 

Sneaking out of New York without a word had seemed world’s easier than telling Suzanne about Jon, so Sheridan hadn’t mentioned she was leaving town.  The luxury of that lie of omission was about to be taken from her, she feared. 

Maybe she just wants to talk.  You might not have to tell her anything.  And if you do, then just tell her.  You’ve been outed to Jon’s friend.  Turnabout is fair play. 

Clenching her jaw, she leaned against the bathroom vanity and swiped a finger across the phone screen. 

“Hi, Suzy.”

“Sheri, what are you doing this afternoon?”

The time difference put it at about two o’clock in New York. 

“Nothing much.  Why?”  Truthful, yet not revealing.  As far as she knew, they didn’t have any big plans for this afternoon.  She, personally, was hoping for a nap to acclimate to the change in time.

“Is there any way you could be a doll and get Madison after school?  I know it’s last minute, but I’ve gotten unexpectedly tied up and Karl’s out of town.”

That simple request – one that she had gladly answered to a half-dozen times before – jerked the last bit of rug out from under Sheridan’s feet.  There was no more hiding, and she found she didn’t want to.  There was nothing to be ashamed of.  He was a good guy and he treated her well. 

“Actually, I’m out of town, too, Suzy.”

“Oh?  I didn’t realize you were going anywhere.  Are you visiting your parents?”

“No, I’m in Los Angeles.” 

“Los Angeles?  Why?”

She spun slowly around on one foot, coming face to face with her two dimensional self in the vanity mirror once again.  Her eyes were bright, her color was good.  Sheridan saw that she was as happy outwardly as she was inwardly.  That meant Suzy would be happy about this, too.

Good grief, you’re seeing the man, not engaged.  It’s not a big deal.

“Jon invited me to a Christmas party at his friend’s house tomorrow night.”

“I’m sorry, what?”  Suzy was practically spluttering.  “Jon?  You can’t possibly mean Jon Bon Jovi? Because a week ago you told me you didn’t know a thing about him.”

“I lied.” She had no problem bluntly confessing , but quickly followed with, “It was still very casual at the time, set to wither away at a moment’s notice.”

“I knew it!  I knew there was something fishy going on there!”

“Very good, Sherlock.”  Sheridan couldn’t help but grin at her friend’s triumphant crowing.  She gave Suzy the barest details, stating only that she and Jon were seeing each other and that’s really all there was to it. 

“Does Riley know yet?”

“No!”  Realizing that she’d been gone a long time, and that Jon might be wondering about her, Sheridan tried to wrap up her conversation as she opened the bathroom door.  “Why I’m here is hush-hush.  Everyone will find out soon enough, but not until I decide to issue a formal release.  That will be later.  Much later.”

More engrossed in her conversation that where she was going, she nearly ran into Grace, who was stealthily slipping out of another room. 

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

“Mm hmm.”  The older woman gave her the same skeptical look as she had in the kitchen, making Sheridan feel like an errant child before moving on down the hallway. 

She shivered.  There was some kind of weird vibe to that woman.  Mean was too harsh a word, but quietly hostile might be an apt description from the way she had chastised both Richie and Jon.  From the strange undercurrent t beneath Richie’s easy joking, she got the feeling that he agreed with the assessment.  Why did he keep a woman on staff that he didn’t like?  It made her wonder if there was more going on here than met the eye. 

“Suzy, I have to go, but I’ll be home on Sunday afternoon.  We’ll get together.”

Her friend agreed and rang off, leaving Sheridan still feeling peculiar about Richie’s housekeeper.  She needed to ask Jon about her when they got a moment alone.

❧❧❧

“Kitten?” 

Jon nuzzled soft lips along the side of her neck, sending jolts of electricity into all kinds of interesting places.  If she were going to have her sleep interrupted, his sinful mouth one of the few acceptable reasons for interruption.

“Baby?” 

His hand pushed under the Aerosmith t-shirt she had slipped into her for nap, splaying wide against her torso.  The heavy palm held her steady as he gently bumped his erection into her from where his naked body was curled behind her in the guest bed.

“Hmm?”  She lolled her head around, sleepy eyes seeking face. 

“You know what we’re going to for the rest of the day?”

The rest of the day?  Her curiosity was piqued. 

When she came to lie down, Richie and Jon were on their way to the music room to play a song Richie recently wrote.  There had been mention of dinner at Richie’s favorite Mexican place, but nothing beyond that.  Certainly nothing that would constitute an all-day agenda.

“What’s that?”

His hand inched down her abdomen like a seductive spider, each finger walking independently and scraping its own distinctive callus against the delicately soft skin of her underbelly. 

“First…”  He nipped lightly at the curve of her neck as he burrowed under the purple lace to cup her mound and sneak a finger into her tingling folds.  “I’m gonna make you think of me instead of some guitarist when you wear that shirt.”

“Mmnh…”  The soft grunt easily escaped her sleepy lips and she parted her thighs to give him more room to maneuver.  Her reward was a second finger joining the first to fondle the slick flesh that grew slicker with each stroke. 

His nose touched the outer shell of her ear, and Sheridan shivered at the combination of his hot breath and his naughty exploration.  A soft gasp was his reward for tunneling into the aching core that he’d coerced into throbbing.  She could feel each beat of her heart pulsing in the intimate flesh.

“Joe Perry’s fingers might be good with guitar strings, but he’ll never be better at plucking your strings.”  His tongue lapped at the tendon bowed out on her neck, flicking its tautness as he flicked his thumb over the equally taut bundle of nerves between her legs.  “I know you.  I can play your body sweeter than any guitar he owns.  You’ll make the prettiest music for me when you come.”

“Oh, God,” she breathed, completely enamored with the sexy arrogance

His satisfied chuckle vibrated against her jaw.  “See?  You’re already starting to hit the right notes.”

A flurry of movements, incomprehensible to her fogged mind, had her pinned under him, his cock shoving purple lace aside and pushing into her weeping slit.  Their simultaneous groans created an erotic harmony.

“Old fucker can’t keep it up anymore,” Jon murmured against her lips as he pushed deep.  “But I can’t keep it down when I’m with you.”

“Mmh.”  A pitiful whimper resonated through their kiss, and she rolled her hips seeking his filling presence when he retreated. 

“Ssssss……” he hissed when her nails painfully raked his shoulder blades, and he gave her bottom lip a nip of approval.  “There’s my Kitten.”  The next plunge was accompanied by an erotic grind that had her back bowing. 

“Richie thinks I made up Jamaica,” he confided, his eyes locked on Sheridan’s mouth.  She was bathing her already wet lips, capturing the moisture he left behind with his tender bite.  “Said you didn’t look like you had it in you to be that woman.”

Jon redistributed his weight so that he was leaning on just one hand, and brought the other up to stroke her cheek.  “I got hard right then, knowing that I’m the only one who sees you like this.  The way your eyes glaze over.”  He pushed deep again, and slowly withdrew.  “The pretty pink your cheeks turn.”  Another plunge and retreat.  “So fucking turned on that you can’t pretend this side of you doesn’t exist.”

He was killing her.  An agonizingly slow and torturous death.  The words were every bit as much of an aphrodisiac as his movement, and they were making her too hot for her skin.  She was going to burst into flames if he didn’t give her some relief. 

“Now, Jon.  Jesus, nowwww.”

She thought he laughed, but it was so breathy and strangled from his own mounting release that she wasn’t sure.  “Not yet, Kitten.  It's not time.”

“Whyyy?”  The bucking of her hips did nothing to change his determined pace.  “Make it time.  Make me come, baby.  Please.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as he stole hers with an aggressive drive. 

“Almost,” was his whispered promise against the underside of her jaw.  “As soon as I tell you about the rest of the day.”

“I… don’t care… about anything else.”  Panting the words like a winded racehorse, she crossed her ankles at the small of his back and urged him closer.   Begged him to put an end to his cruelty. 

“You don’t now, my pretty Sex Kitten, but you will.” 

Sweat trickled from his temple down the side of his cheek and onto his jaw.  Sheridan took little comfort in knowing she wasn’t the only one suffering from his display of willpower. 

“When we’re… eating dinner…  and doing a shot of… tequila.”  His hips rolled in a particularly intimate maneuver, sucking a pleasured pain gasp from her.  “Knowing that the next… shot I do… will be off your hot body.”

“Yes.  Oh, yessss….”

“I’ll suck the salt off one… nipple.  And the lime… off the other.”

“Mmmnngghhh.”  The strangled sounds of frustration were mounting, and her breasts tingled with anticipation.

“My body.”  He bit out with the words with a ferocity that matched his thrust.   “My shots.”  The declaration and the thrust were intensified the second time, and it hit a spot…

“OhhhhhHHHH!” 

His choreographed pace be damned.  That blatantly stated possessiveness triggered an explosion that started deep inside and only got bigger as he encouraged and praised her as he took his own pleasure. 

The seismic shocks rippled outward until her toes, her fingers and even her hair was trembling with the force.   Her mind was useless, the thoughts jumbling together in kaleidoscope of endorphins and adrenaline that, while they were pretty, rendered her unable to form words.

With Jon’s weight pinning her intimately into the mattress, Sheridan didn’t mind.  The feelings that flooded her at this moment...?  They defied words, anyway.

26 - Honey, I'm Home!

“Don’t listen to a damn word he says,” Jon cautioned as the hired car drove through the entrance to Richie’s gated community. 

The flight had been comfortably uneventful with each of them involved in their own reading and sipping coffee.  Sheridan grew sleepy as the flight went on and used his shoulder as a pillow.  It was enough to convince him to catch a quick catnap too.  His only regret was that they hadn’t taken advantage of the private aircraft’s bedroom.  

“I’m tellin’ ya, he will make shit up just to have me look bad or get a reaction.”

“Then he should be very entertaining.”  Sheridan patted his cheek condescendingly and leaned in for a chaste kiss.  “In case you need a reminder, your friend’s house is considered public.  I expect you to keep it clean and not embarrass me.”

“You mean I can’t pin you to the wall and put my tongue down your throat while he eats his heart out?”

“Um.  No.”

“Then I best be gettin’ a helluva lot better kiss than that as my ‘last supper’.  C’mere, my feisty little Kitten.”  He palmed a demanding hand around her nape and held firm while he laid claim to her mouth, sliding his tongue in to taste the now-familiar flavor that was Sheridan.  Her immediate and willing surrender had his chest swelling with puffed-up arrogance.   She couldn’t hide her body’s reaction to him.

“Mm.”  She gently disengaged herself from his kiss when the car slid to a halt in Richie’s driveway.  “We’re here.  Best behavior?  Promise?”

Jon frowned with annoyance, unhappy with the interruption.  “Only until the bedroom door closes,” was his magnanimous concession as she quickly touched up her lipstick. 

Tucking the little tube back into her purse, she treated him to a saucy wink.  “Perfect.”

Jon shook his head faintly, then slid out of the car, reaching back to offer a hand of assistance.  Instead giving him her hand, she pushed the bakery box at him while the driver got their two overnight bags from the trunk  How in the hell was he going to keep a straight face when Richie opened this box, he didn’t know.

You’re about to find out.

“Hola compadres!” Richie’s mellow voice came from the doorway. 

“He’s lived in Southern California for twenty years and thinks he’s born in East L.A.” Jon muttered under his breath, forcing Sheridan to duck her head so that she could smother the laughter.  It was enough to make Jon grin down at her as he tucked her into his side. 

“Don’t listen damn word he says,” Richie offered casually as he took the bags from the driver, clearly unconcerned about the source of the private joke the two of them were sharing.  “He’ll make shit up just to make me look bad.”

Sheridan’s head whipped toward Jon, blatant disbelief washed over her face.  “What?  Are you kidding me? You two have a script?”

“I knew it, you dirty SOB!” Richie chortled with delight over his shoulder while depositing their luggage in the foyer.  “Poisoning her mind against me before we’ve even met.  Are you that insecure, Jonny boy?”

“Fu-“  He slid a look at Sheridan, thinking better of his ingrained response to Richie’s bullshit.  “Shut up and meet her already.  Rich, this is Sheridan King.”

“Enchantee.”   Playing the host role to the hilt, Richie bowed from the waist and captured Sheridan’s hand for a gallant Prince Charming-type kiss. 

“Kee-riiist,” Jon groaned quietly to Sheridan’s obvious amusement.  Her laughter tinkled in his ears and earned her a devilish wink from Richie as he straightened, knowing that he’d just put Jon’s non-existent shorts in a wad.  “Back the fuck up already!”

If Sambora thinks he’s gonna dick around like this all weekend, he’s lost his mind.

The other man’s evil chuckle earned him a stink eye of the finest proportion. 

“Yo.  Tropical Storm Sheridan.  How’s it hangin’?”  Richie kicked up a dimpled grin.  “That better, asshole?”

“Oh, my word.”  Visibly horrified at the nickname he’d branded her with, and the sophomoric conversation that was taking place before her very eyes, she stepped forward and relieved Jon of the bakery box.  Offering it to Richie, she guided the social fiasco with a smooth, “Moving on, never to return….  Richie…  In appreciation for allowing me to come into your home, I made a little something that I hope you’ll enjoy.  Jon said you liked honey covered pastries.”

Richie nearly dropped the box.

Ha!  Take that, fucker!

To anyone who didn’t know him, Richie’s expression was perfectly calm and pleasantly neutral when curling his fingers more firmly around the edges of the thin white cardboard.  To Jon, though…  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his buddy was just about to swallow his own tongue with laughter.

He patted himself on the back for a job well-done, the pride lasting for one hot second before a distantly familiar feeling edged its way in.  It was a feeling that he used to be intimately acquainted with, but in recent years there hadn’t been occasion to experience the combination of dread and anticipation.    

Brown eyes glowed with maniacal mischief, darting to Jon before settling on Sheridan and going all warm and friendly. 

Why did Jon always forget one thing about getting one over on Richie?  The other man retaliated.  And he took no prisoners.

“That’s no lie.  I do, but I have a very discriminating palate.  Kidd’s willingness to share must mean that your honey is exceptional.  I can’t wait to give it a taste.” 

He licked his lips in a silent ‘fuck you’ to Jon, whose eyes closed with outraged defeat.

“Come on,” his friend invited jovially, gesturing toward the far doorway with his container of baked treasures.  “Let’s take these in the kitchen so I can put them on the counter and bury my face in that box.”

Jon was about to have an aneurysm, but poor Sheridan was none the wiser.  Thank God she was completely missing the subtext of the exchange and unaware that Richie had pretty well just said he wanted to eat her on the counter.   For now, she just frowned at him, wondering why they weren’t following Richie. 

“Jon?”

If she ever figures out what the hell just happened, we are dead men. 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

Dredging up a rueful smile, he curved an arm around her waist and grudgingly gave his ax-man props for his on-the-spot improv skit.  Sambora would be reminding him of this exchange for years to come.

Jon stifled both a groan and the urge to pull Sheridan away when they stepped into the room, Southwestern-style kitchen to find Richie bent over the counter, his face in the box of pastries while he cooed with appreciative noises.  He pinned Jon with another calculating look and opened his mouth to speak. 

God only knew what would have spilled out, but they were all granted a temporary reprieve from Richie’s witty repartee in the form of his housekeeper.  The woman with the military stiff posture and matching short, steel-gray hair bestowed what was an unexpectedly warm smile upon Jon and Sheridan while smacking at Richie’s shoulder.

“Get your face out of there,” she ordered sharply.  “Nobody wants you breathing all over the pastries.”

Standing upright to tower over the five-foot-nothing woman, her employer snorted.  “Now, Gracie, if they didn’t want my face in them, they wouldn’t have offered them to me so generously.”

“Mind your manners.”

She wasn’t much older than their own fifty-something, but Richie’s housekeeper ruled his house like a miniature drill sergeant.  As a matter of fact, Jon thought that she had some connection to Richie’s ex-father-in-law – the Marine General. 

Which was a good thing, in Jon’s opinion.  The woman was a much needed dose of discipline in Richie’s somewhat free-spirited existence here on the West Coast.  When they were working, Richie knew where the lines were drawn, but at home…  Jon was glad Grace was around.

“Gracie.”  Jon slipped away from Sheridan and bent to touch a kiss on the little woman wearing jeans and a Camp Pendleton t-shirt.  “How’ve ya been, beautiful?”

“Oh, you stop, too.”  Not one to accept flowery compliments, she smacked his shoulder in much the same way she had smacked Richie’s.  “Introduce me to your friend, since Mr. Manners over here obviously isn’t going to do it.”

“Hey.  I’ve got manners,” he mumbled around a bite of sticky flakiness.  “That’s why I’m appreciating the gift that Storm, here, brought me.”  Another outrageous wink flew at the demurely smiling Sheridan, while Jon wondered why he had thought this would be a good idea.

“Sheridan King, this is Grace Maloney, Richie’s warden.”

“The official title is ‘domestic manager’, thank you very much,” she sniffed, holding a hand out to Sheridan.  “But a warden wouldn’t be a bad idea sometimes with this one.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” his socially savvy girlfriend returned.  “I’m sure you do a fine job in both capacities.”

“Another one of those politically correct crew, huh?”  She looked Sheridan up and down with a skeptical eye. 

“Gracie, play nice.” Richie settled an affectionate arm around his housekeeper’s shoulder, with one hip bumped up against the earthen marble countertop.  He clarified to Sheridan, “She’s technically my housekeeper, but the real reason I pay her to come in four days a week is to badger and belittle me.  And trust me, she excels at her job.”

“I hate to be a bother,” Sheridan detoured the conversation.  “But is there someplace I could freshen up a bit?  It’s been a long time since I left my apartment this morning.”

“I’ll show you.”  Grace’s gruff offer was perfectly normal to Jon, but he could see that Sheridan was a little taken aback by the abrupt, non-nonsense tone.  “I’ve got to go upstairs and run the sweeper, anyway.”

Sheridan leaned in and touched chaste lips to Jon’s jaw, telling him softly, “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Take your time, Kitten.”

The two women’s footsteps had barely faded when Richie held  his open palm for a high five.  “Damn, man.  I didn’t know you still had it in you.  Well-played with the pastries.”

“It was genius and you know it,” Jon chortled smugly, accepting the filled coffee mug.  It was a classic in the Sambora tacky coffee mug collection, depicting beautiful, bikini-clad triplets and declaring ‘If you’re sexy and you know it, do all three!’.  “You just about busted us both out with the box overkill though.  Sheridan knows nothing, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Consider it locked in Pandora’s box.”  Richie switched his own coffee to his left hand and bumped knuckles with Jon.  “Storm won’t hear it from me.  I might have to tell Lemma though.  That was some seriously funny shit.”

Knowing their keyboardist’s love for practical jokes, he would appreciate it.  He would also be the first one to blow the whistle if he ever met Sheridan, and he would blow it long and loudddd.

“No.  This stays between me and you, and quit with the Storm shit.  It’s making her uncomfortable.”

Richie’s mug – showing a psychotic squirrel and saying ‘Protect Your Nuts’ – scraped dully against the countertop.  “Can’t say I’m surprised she has you whipped already.  She’s definitely a ball-buster.”

“What makes you say that?”  There was nothing further from the truth.  So far, he hadn’t experienced the first cringe that him know she was trying to take the upper hand.  Mutual respect seemed to be the name of the game so far, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

“Don’t get me wrong.  She’s easy enough on the eyes, but she looks like a friggin’ PTA mom.  I know freak, and that girl doesn’t have it in her to freak.  I call bullshit on your whole Jamaican fuck fest.  You made it up.”

Jon smiled into his cup, using the gulp of hot liquid as a reason not to respond.  He took perverse pleasure in the fact that his sexually psychic friend had no idea that there was a hissing, spitting sex kitten buried inside that PTA mom exterior.  Because if Richie didn’t know it, then nobody knew Sheridan’s dirty little secret.

Nobody but Jon.

Yeah.  He liked that.  A lot.

25 - Fast Forward and Rewind

Jon’s smile lit up the hallway and his still sleepy eyes when he picked her up for the airport on Thursday morning.   “You ready, Kitten?” he asked, leaning in to brush a familiar kiss across her lips. 

The touch of his mouth thrilled her just as much now as it had on that unexpected visit five days ago.  If anything, the new level of intimacy lent it a different kind of thrill.

“Just let me grab my jacket.” 

He stepped inside and grabbed her overnight bag while she shrugged into her coat.  Taking a last look around the apartment to ensure that everything was secure for a long weekend, she nodded with satisfaction and picked up the white bakery box from the counter. 

“Ready.”

Standing back, he allowed her to exit in front of him and, with his hand on the doorknob, lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.  “Got your keys?”

She patted her purse with a nod, and he secured the door while she called the elevator.  “You look tired,” she observed, using a gentle fingertip to trace laugh lines at the corner of his left eye. 

“I didn’t have a sexy body enticing me to crawl in bed last night.  I stayed up later than I should have.”

The elevator heralded its arrival with a discreet ‘ding’, and they boarded the car, Jon tapping the button for the lobby.   Last night had been the only one this week that he wasn’t in her bed. 

Both had wanted to ensure their respective homes were secure for an absence.  Jon could do that at a moment’s notice, but Sheridan needed the distraction-free time to make sure she was comfortable everything had been taken care of.

Jon offered the doorman a nod, as did she, and then passed her bag over to the driver before ushering her into the back of the black sedan.  Nodding to the bakery box that she protectively settled into the set next to her, he asked, “Richie’s?”

She nodded, smiling when he laced their fingers together and rested them on his thigh.  It had been part of her holiday baking for the week.

Tuesday evening, the doorbell rang while she was up to her elbows in flour and molasses.   She knew that Jon would be coming over, so she’d left the locks on the door open to simply call out, “Come on in, Jon,” instead of dusting herself off and still covering the door in cookie baking staples.

“Hey.  Something smells good.”

“Hey, yourself.  Molasses cookies, probably.”

The immediate perking of his ears was comical.  “Cookies, huh?  Are they any good?”

“You tell me.  There’s some cooling on the counter.”

“Oh, Godddd,” he mumbled around the first mouthful.  “That’s fantastic.  What else are you making?”

She laughed at the little-boy rapture in his eyes.  “Fudge, chocolate covered pretzels, some other sweets…  I was thinking of making some extra to take along as a gift for Richie.  Do you have any suggestions as to what he might like?”

After their recent talks about doughnuts and pastries and eating them from ‘honey’ covered places, Jon knew what would be perfect for his friend.

“Oh Richie’s into pastries.  Any kind, really, but he particularly likes the ones coated with honey.”

To that end, she dusted off the xerotigana recipe she hadn’t used in ages.  She discovered the spiral, honey covered Greek pastries on a trip to Crete over a decade ago, and it had been nearly that long since she’d gone to the trouble of making them.  They turned out pretty well if she did say so herself, and would make a perfect host gift for Jon’s friend.

Jon touched his lips to the back of her hand with a smile.  He could not fucking wait to see the look on Richie’s face when he opened that box.  Encouraging Sheridan to make the pastries tweaked at his conscience, but what he’d told her was true.  Richie liked pastries.  It was just a happy coincidence that his culinary affection had been made into a Confucius moment lately.  He hoped his buddy would hold to his promise and be on his best manners.

“Hey, Rich,” he greeted his guitarist on Tuesday morning while Sheridan was at her Trouser Tom massage class.  He still didn’t like the guy, sight unseen, but what was he going to do?  Be a whiny shit and pout about her going?  No.  Although he would have enjoyed escorting her to class and making it perfectly clear to Tom – Rick, whatever the limey fucker’s name was –  that Sheridan belonged to him. 

“Yo, bro.  What’s up?”

“I’m bringing a date to your party, if that’s cool.”

Richie snorted.  “Hell, yeah, it’s cool, but I didn’t  see that one coming.  Who’s the lucky lady that will be sleeping in my bed?”

“Your guest bed, dumbass.  Don’t be playing the poacher card.  As a matter of fact, I want you to promise to be on your best behavior – and give us the room furthest away from yours.”

Unruly laughter rang over the phone line, as he’d suspected it would.  Richie was gonna have a field day once he found out this wasn’t just a girl, it was a girlfriend.  This would be the first time since the divorce that his friend had met one of Jon’s women.  The first time in years. 

“Why?  Because you’re afraid she’ll be drawn by the scent of my overwhelming pheromones?  Or because you wanna use my place as a sexual playground?  Should I have a trapeze installed before you get here?”

Jon gave that one a wide berth, even as a contemplative smile curled one corner of his mouth.  He wondered how Sheridan would feel about some ‘extras’.   That would be something to talk about over dinner.

“What the fuck ever.  Be nice to her, but not too nice. And remember that the whole ‘secrets to the grave’ thing isn’t just a lyric.  No talking out of school.”

“What the hell?  I’m getting instructions on how to act around a woman?  Something you wanna tell me, Kidd?”

It would’ve been easiest to spit it out all up front, but he and Richie had this mutual chain-yanking relationship that they’d indulged in for almost thirty years.  There was a balance to things, and he couldn’t just go upsetting the balance by announcing he had a girlfriend. 

“You know damn good and well what I’m telling you.”

The knowing chuckle was slow to come, but come it did.  “Well, well, well.  Whaddaya know?  Jonny’s got a girlfriend for the first time since 1988.  I can’t wait to meet the woman with the sexual bag of tricks that would pull you off the street so soon after parole.”

“You will not bring up sex with her.”

“Oh, I won’t have to,” he assured in his best super-villain voice.  “Sex will fill the air as soon as she walks in.  I’m taking bets on that.”

Jon tugged on his right pant leg, stealing a furtive look at the beautiful woman whose black denim thigh was nestled against his.  Casually dressed for travel, she was wearing a short leather jacket that matched her jeans and boots, and one of those soft sweaters with the big, droopy neckline.  It was a crayon green several shades brighter than her eyes, and made her lightly made-up eyes shine more vividly.  Her only jewelry today was a pair of diamond studs glittering in earlobes left exposed by her loosely pinned-up hair.   

He was still having trouble reconciling the two Sheridans - this classically elegant beauty and his wild-eyed sex kitten.  Both appealed to him on two totally different levels.  

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“If I told you no, would you say it again?” she fished shamelessly, unable to stifle the smile or the warm glow of pleasure his soft question brought.  The sentiment was nice, but it was the wonder in his eyes that did it for her.  Almost like he was surprised to hear the words coming from his mouth.    

“Probably.  If you tell me what you’re wearing under that sweater.”  The sexy wink had her toes curling inside her boots.  Would she ever get enough of him? 

“The purple.  It’s Richie’s favorite color, right?”

“Brat!” he growled, twisting to nip at her jaw.  “You’re still beautiful, but a brat.”

Sheridan recoiled, protecting the finally-blemish-free skin of her neck with a quiet giggle.  The truth was, he had told her once, earlier this week.  But the circumstances were totally different, and it hadn’t carried nearly the same impact. 

“Hey.  Let’s go in here.”

Warily eyeing the Agent Provocateur sign, Sheridan took a deep breath and agreed.  The time spent together on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday had provided this new ‘thing’ of theirs with a solid foundation in her mind.  She was feeling as comfortable with him on the couch or in the kitchen as she did in the bedroom, so this didn’t seem like too far out in left field.

That was how they came to be shopping in the ‘underwear place’, as Jon called it, just down the block from his building.   It was a spur-of-the-moment Wednesday afternoon visit, prompted by the window display that caught his eye on their way to his condo.    The frothy scraps reminded him of the promise he made to build Sheridan’s stockpile of lacy lingerie.

“Funny, these things don’t carry the same punch as they do when you’re wearing them.”  The pink lace and elastic dangling from his fingertips sent a four alarm fire through Sheridan.  The undeniably feminine panties in his masculine hands created an erotic contrast.

“That’s probably a good thing,” she remarked, placing a cool hand against her flaming cheek.  “Otherwise you might develop an unhealthy obsession with this place.  Then your all-American boy image would be shot.”

He dropped it back onto the table.  “Good point.  I’ve decided I like the way you do things, anyway – with the conservative beauty on the outside.  It makes what’s underneath even more… effective.”

And, after extensive deliberation and a mandatory fashion show, he proceeded to enhance that effectiveness with the purchase of half a dozen outlandishly priced lingerie sets adorned with fur, ribbon, lace and silk. 

That was the first time Jon called her beautiful.  It wasn’t the first time he made her feel that way, but it was the first time he said it.  He made her feel that way every time he looked at her body with hot appreciation.  Every time he couldn’t keep his hand from touching her in some way, she felt desirable. 

It was working.  Whatever plan he’d hatched to earn her trust, it was working. 

She was starting to feel like she mattered to him.